Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 3: New York! New York!

NOVEMBER 3rd, 2006.
New York City, the Big Apple, Gotham, the Windy Cheese, or something like that.

Anyway, it's the unofficial capitol of capital for this strange little planet, so I decided to check it out.

I got off the train at Penn Station after spending my time in Philad
elphia, ducking the police and helping Karl Rove rewire the Diebold voting machines. I had a long list of things to see, and do, and to have done to me while I was in town, and I was set on doing it all. Because if I could make it there, I could...

How does that saying go?

Who cares?

I had booked a suite at one of the pricier hotels in
Manhattan. They didn't have an 'Intergalactic Conqueror's' suite, so I had to settle for Presidential.

While strolling along Manhattan's downtown I came across a gaping hole in the skyline. I knew where I was instantly, I was standing on the edge of Ground Zero where the World Trade Center once stood.

I wanted to have a moment of silence for the almost 3000 Earthlings who perished in this atrocity, but someone was intent on ruining that for me.

"Stop the reconstruction!" screamed a woman in her early 20s,
with long dirty blonde (& I mean dirty) hair done in those 'White Suburbanite Dreadlocks' popular with the professional protester crowd.

"What in the name of Zarg are you griping about?" I demanded from the unkempt protester.

"They're planning to put new buildings on this site!" she screamed.

"Please speak in a normal tone of voice," I said covering my ears.

"They're going to defile this site with new construction," she said. "That shouldn't be allowed, people died here and it's sacred."

"This land is not sacred," I said.

The woman gasped and almost dropped her non-fat soy-latte on her birkenstocks in shock.

"This is the location of a ma
ss murder," I continued, "it's not a shrine, it's not a temple, it's a crime scene."

"You insensitive monster!"

"I am a monster," I replied, "but I am not insensitive. This is the heart of Manhattan's downtown district. A place of commerce, communication, a place of life. This desire to go into a state of paralysis and perpetual grief does a disservice to the living and especially to the dead. Innocent people were murdered here, the best respect we can show the dead is for the people of t
his city to rebuild, bigger and more beautiful than ever. If more remains are found then they should be handled with all the due care and respect they deserve, but you can't let that stop this city from living."

"How dare you challenge my absolute moral authority with rational thought!"

It was then that I realised that I'd be better off arguing with a brick than with this person, so I left, regretting leaving my particle blaster at the Frat house.

"Please give," said a fellow in a worn Armani suit on a corner of Fifth Avenue.

"Wait a minute," I said, recognizing the b
eggar's face, "you're Al Franken!"

"Please don't
spit on me!" howled Al Franken, covering his face with his hands.

"My species only spit when we absolutely have to,"
I said, "that's because we spit acid."

"Please spare some change for Air Amer
ica," pleaded Franken, "we're out of money , nobody listens to us, charities won't let us steal from them again, and the list of rich lefties willing to piss money away is shrinking fast."

"Oh, you poor creature," I said. Then I spat on him.

"Come and see the violence inherent in the system!" screamed a nervous fellow with salt and pepper hair, who waved his arms frantically. "This maniac's acting under the influence that evil trimuver... triamver... trio of Michelle Malkin, Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham!"

"You must
me Keith Olberman," I said.

"You violent
psycho right wingers should all have your eyes gouged out with rusty spoons!" screeched Olberman. "Promoting violence against us poor folks who dare to speak truth to power!"

"If that's not the hackneyed catchphrase of the moron," I said, "I don't know what is."

"I hope my viewers, all two of them, get you conservatives and roast you alive on spits for promoting violence against us liberals!"

"You do realize that you regularly voice violent fantasies against conservatives?" I asked.

"Of course," answered Olberman, "but when I do it, it's cute, when you do it, it's a justification for the elimination of free speech."

Too bad I wasted a good loogie on Al Franken, I was going to need a drink to work up another one for this troll.

"Wait here," I said as I
went to cross the street to a convenience store, hoping they carried some Flokian digestive acid, or if unavailable, Diet Pepsi.

That's when it hit me.

A bus to be specific.


"How do you feel?" asked a voice from the darkness.

I opened my eyes and saw a young boy standing in front of me.

"A little sore, but I heal quickly. Who are you?" I asked.

"We've never met face to face," answered the boy, "but you filled in for me with my blog last summer."

"Damian G?"


"Where's the creepy latin choir music coming from?" I asked.

Damian shrugged.

"It's always sort of been there," he answered.


"It's kind of annoying," I said.

"You get used to it," answered Damian.

"Where am I?"

"My home in Amityville," answered Damian. "Saw you get hit by the bus and managed to get you into my Gremlin before the cops came. You're wanted in Philadelphia for exposing lacklustre policing."

"Thanks," I said, getting up from the couch, folding the Spongebob blanket, and heading for a door. "I really should be getting back to my hotel, I've got an honour bar I simply have to dishonour."

"That's not the exit," said Damian as I opened the door, "that's a closet."

I looked inside and screamed.

"There's a skeleton in your closet!"

"That's not a skeleton," answered Damian, "that's my life size shrine to Anne Coulter."


"That's it," I said, "I'm outta here. I'm gonna go check out the Red States."


SeanS said...

Gee Remulak, you make it sound like a lifesized shrine to Ann Coulter is a bad thing.

Damian G. said...

Awww, how did you know I sang in Latin?

Anonymous said...

Great posts! I've enjoyed reading about your expoits. Sorry about the hippie.